Who takes charge,
When the Wagon of Di
Rolls its bone sharpened spiked wheels of eternal malice,
Up my winding overgrown driveway,
And the shadowed horses of fire-blasting manes that flicker,
Lick their wounds & charred skin,
Crusty flakes of of ash coating a trail dusted by their roped tails,
And the the neon red lanterns bouncing around,
Hanging off spinal pole-arms,
Pumping the blood that makes the red intensify,
Is it you?
I threaten now
Who is the boss,
That rides inside the wagon of Di
Snoozing upon a pile of cracked and fragmented skulls,
With plump white worms of spiraling chainsaw teeth
Dive in and out of the eye holes,
With scattered half eaten hearts of big and small,
Bleeding into the black oil plush floor,
Veneered by a lengthy, enigmatic quilt of ice
that molds to a tossing night terror plagued form…
Do I know Him?
I will deliver the fucking coup de grâce,
To whoever is in charge,
When the wagon of Di
Halts at my doorstep, burns it down,
Extracts me from a deathly slumber,
Draws a bastard sword to my throat, but nicks the thinnest line.
Retreats like I am the mouse and it is the cat.
And returns with an insatiable appetite, smelling my blood.
But when He stands toe to toe with me,
Eye to eye,
It is impossible to attack or defend or question
The one who is in charge of the wagon of Di.
He is a vengeful me.